Thoughts of Adamant
by TheLittlestPhoenix
Summary: Adamant was painful, for Hawke more than for anyone else. One-shot about her time on the fortress walls, her mind on nothing but her brother. Cole recalls her thoughts in that moment. Completed.


**A/N:** I wanted to try something different, deviate from my usual writing style, so here it is. It's kind of an experimental one-shot, I guess you could say. I hope you like it, please leave a review!

* * *

_"Familiar, yet they are the enemy. She must remember that. Her brother, she does it for her brother."_

Adamant stood as one, the epicenter of a chaotic hurricane at the lonely edge of the abyss. On the walls, two forces clashed as trebuchets fired smoking trails of fire across the night sky. Joined griffons battling sunburst eyes as demons clawed at the walls. The world tore itself apart in the most forsaken of places, and amidst the ruins of waking life, there was Hawke.

She stood upright, shield hung low at her side, blood trickling down its surface. Pain burned through her arms, but she held her sword upright as she spun, making out friend from foe, staring down the length of the walls like a predator bird. Eyes askance, she sought a new prey. Failed to notice the whip.

_"Crackling. She turns around, no time. It hurts, burns, stings. Falling."_

Pride had turned out to be faster, but as Hawke fell to the ground, she brought her left arm in front of her, covering her chest with her shield. The next whip, crepitating along its length, came down with force on it, searing at it. Hawke felt her hands starting to burn through her gauntlets, and threw it aside as she rolled away, the blackened steel falling apart as it hit the parapet. In one swift movement she rose again, both hands closed around the hilt of her sword. The Pride Demon turned, eyes glowing a violet fire. The predator had become the prey, and Hawke realized it. Sniffing up the air - the smell of burning death - she looked right at the hulking giant, feet planted firm on the ground. Wind caught her raven hair, and it flowed behind her head, a crestless flag.

_"It's in her head, but it should not be, it is a lie, promises to keep the hurt away but it is lying."_

A thundering voice that spoke of a Champion, a person that she was not, pain that was not hers, the destruction of a horned foe she'd never faced. Hawke simply shook her head. No - she was not Hawke, no longer, she was Marian, that pride was not hers, she had left that life behind. She charged, sword raised, and slid under the behemoth's legs.

Screams it bellowed from within, and Pride stumbled as the sword cut through knees. Again, the whips crackled and again, Marian rolled aside. It became a routine, a never-ending battle. And then it shrieked, and they were upon it, the Inquisition, her allies. Like ants they crawled over it, left and right, up and down, and like wasps they stung, felling the Demon, banishing it from this world.

They helped her up, and she bowed, grateful.

And then they were gone, around the corner, magic flashing at foes she could not see.

And Marian pushed onward.

Down the stairs she went, sword still in hand, shield of a dead Warden.

_"It reminds her of him, but she doesn't want to, she wants the hurt to go away."_

In the courtyard there were more, griffons ablaze on breastplates, bows strung. Arrows clattered off the shield as Marian moved into a sprint, ducked behind the steel and she raised her sword. Within moments she was upon them, and they gazed at her, death in their eyes. They drew daggers, but it was too late, and her sword cut through them, the blade coloring a dark red. An arrow whizzed past her ear and she spun, deflecting the next one, ducking, hacked at his legs. He fell, screaming, and the stones painted red. The next ran, but didn't get far, falling and she was on top of him, slit his throat. Then a dagger sunk into her shoulder, and she screamed out in pain, the shriek of a hawk, before spinning on her heels, bringing her sword with her in one swift movement. Blade cut through flesh, cut through bone, and the head severed, body going limp. And then it was over.

She stood for a second, panting, and then collapsed herself.

_"A haze, like water, but salt like the sea, like home - she doesn't hear, she doesn't feel, but she thinks of him."_

As tears streamed down her face, Marian smiled, a nostalgic smile. Around her lay brethren, _his_ brethren, the men that had taken him in. The ground was red with blood, red like the lyrium they'd found, red like the Roads as he'd succumbed to the sickness. Carver, her brother, tainted in a blighted hell, near the death that would surely take him. But he'd pushed through,_ they_'d pushed through, and they'd brought him to the Wardens. He'd survived. All of because of them.

_Them_. They lay around her, dead.

As she sat there on her knees, cheeks wet with grief, she wondered what had become of the Order. What _would_ become of the Order. What would become of Carver.

* * *

"She fought, not for them, not for us, but for him. For an order that would not hurt, that would not cause the tears," Cole said, wonder in his voice.

"I know, Kid." Varric sighed, a deep frown on his face, and took another sip of his ale.

"She wanted to help, but not all, you, but not us." Cole looked up from under his hat. "Why is that, Varric?"

Another sigh, now deep and heavy._ He misses her, but he is content, and understands_, Cole thought, but he did not say it.

"Well," the dwarf spoke, as he glanced aside, "some people are just more important to others."

He looked at Cole's tankard. "Are you gonna drink that, Kid?"

Cole stared at him strangely. "I don't drink, Varric, you know that."

Varric leaned forward and pulled the tankard closer to him. "Then I'll drink for two."


End file.
